


Christmas Hopes

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas Decorations, Christmas Eve, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Watson’s Christmas traditions are disappearing one at a time, and his Christmas spirit is fading with them. Will this Christmas be just another day?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

_“Love and joy come to you,_

_And to you your wassail too;_

_And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year_

_And God send you a Happy New Year.…”_

The carolers moved out of earshot, and I leaned against the window, trying to ignore how tired I was as childhood memories came to the fore. Harry had always loved the holiday, and it seemed he found new carols every year. I never did learn where he had found so many new songs, but he inevitably started singing them around the first of December—to our father’s annoyance. Our parents enjoyed the holiday, but only during the week of Christmas instead of the entire month.

I tried to smile at the memory. Harry had nearly driven our parents mad every year with new songs and more decorations, and I had often joined him for the fun of it. In later years, our parents had frequently turned us out of the house for hours at a time, telling us to go carol in town if we felt the need to sing “those confounded earworms again,” as Father had called them. The first year after Father read Dickens’ Christmas story, he had started calling one or both of us Fred, after the man in the story that loved Christmas so much that he continually invited his grumpy uncle to the Christmas party. Father had laughed when Harry retaliated by calling him Scrooge, and soon enough, most of the others in the house had their own Dickens nickname.

_I suppose that makes me Tiny Tim now,_ I thought with a grimace as both arm and leg twitched from separate spasms. I had been looking forward to going caroling until the temperature dropped. The snowstorm moving in prevented me from moving far from the fire, and I had been considering going to bed for an hour or two until the carolers had moved closer. A patient the night before had turned into an all-night vigil, and I was finding it difficult to keep my eyes open, no matter that I wanted to have as much of the day with Holmes as he decided to spend in the flat. I feared he would disregard the holiday completely if I was not in the sitting room when he returned.

The door below opened, then shut, and Holmes’ footsteps climbed the stairs. I moved back to my chair with a sigh, hoping to hide how much the cold bothered me. Holmes was even worse than Father had been, prone to scowling and retreating to his room when faced with anything related to the holiday even as we grew closer to Christmas Day. He had scowled at me yesterday when I asked if he could play any carols on his violin, and I had not tried again.

I hoped I had concealed his present well enough, at least. Last year, he had deduced it as soon as he walked through the door, and any hope of surprising him had vanished just as quickly. I did not expect to render him speechless as I had the first year, but I did want the gift itself to be a surprise. That was half the fun of buying him a Christmas present and why I had waited until the last minute to retrieve his gift this year.

“Watson?” he said as he opened the door, package in hand.

“Afternoon, Holmes,” I answered, glancing up from the novel I had quickly grabbed from a nearby table. He tossed the package onto his bed and moved closer to the fire, shedding the heavy winter wear the building storm necessitated. “Did you find what you needed?”

He had been grumbling about shopkeepers unable to keep their word when he left, apparently irritated at putting something on hold only for the clerk to sell it anyway, and he had been gone most of the day, presumably searching for whatever the shopkeeper had sold.

“Another shop near St Bart’s had one that should suffice,” he said with a nod, draping his coat over the back of a chair before moving to stand in front of the fire. He rubbed his hands together, not quite able to still the fine tremors caused by the cold. “The temperature is dropping quickly.”

How well I knew. I made no reply, resisting the urge to shift closer to the fire myself. At this rate, it might be several days before I would be able to venture outside again, and I was growing close to needing my cane just to cross the sitting room. I smothered a wince as another spasm shot through my shoulder, grateful that one at least had not forced my arm to move. Aside from those being nearly as annoying as they were painful, I would never be able to hide such a thing with Holmes standing directly in front of me.

Another carol drifted from the street below, and I pointedly looked away as Holmes scowled, trying to hide my longing for the holidays I remembered from childhood. Too crippled to take part in it myself this year, what little Christmas spirit I had left was fading quickly. I could not even decorate my room as I had planned, and Holmes had chased Mrs. Hudson away when she tried to decorate the sitting room. Christmas Eve was more than half over, and our rooms looked the same as they did in the middle of February. My Christmas traditions had disappeared one by one, and all that remained were the small gift hidden in my pocket and the beginnings of a tradition that had started two years ago.

Holmes said something, and I pulled myself out of my thoughts to look up at him. “What was that?”

He studied me for a moment. “When did you last sleep?”

I had to think about it, and he affected a scowl. “Take the settee. I will wake you in time for supper.”

I hesitated, glancing between him and the window. I did need to get some sleep, but I had no wish to waste Christmas Eve just because I was tired. I would not ruin the only Christmas celebration I had left.

“Sleep, Watson. You are no use to me asleep on your feet.”

I sighed and set the book on the table. Of course. He had been working on a case for the last several days, and the date made no difference when we needed to catch a criminal. My Christmas hopes slowly evaporated as I pulled the blanket off the back of the settee. Catching a suspect was better than spending the evening alone, I supposed, but I would have preferred to spend the evening in our sitting room, near the fire. Perhaps we would be back before midnight so I could at least give him his present on Christmas Eve.

* * *

Watson was asleep before his head hit the pillow, and Holmes stood watching him for a moment, thinking. Watson had not even wished him a “Happy Christmas” yet, and Holmes had expected a pawky remark after scowling at the carolers. He had asked if Watson was alright, only for his friend to not even hear the question. Was Watson just tired, or was something else going on?

Watson’s arm twitched, and he grimaced in his sleep, readjusting. That could explain some of it. The weather was changing rapidly as a storm moved closer to the city, and abrupt changes in weather—especially with colder temperatures—always affected Watson’s injuries. Holmes had noticed how slowly his friend had moved between his armchair and the settee. He was not far from needing his cane indoors.

Holmes would have expected Watson to use the holiday to take his mind off his injuries rather than allowing his injuries to ruin the holiday, however, and Watson would not neglect to even _mention_ the holiday just because he was hurting. Something else was going on as well. Was he simply tired?

The door opened behind him, and Mrs. Hudson carried a tray into the room, her greeting cutting off mid-syllable as she noticed Watson asleep on the settee.

“It’s about time,” she said under her breath, ignoring Holmes to set the tea tray on the table. She set out a plate of biscuits, draped in a towel to stay warm, before organizing the other few dishes over the table.

Holmes frowned and moved across the room, reading more into the words than perhaps she meant him to hear.

“Is Watson alright?” he asked quietly.

She barely looked up, but her equally quiet, “What do you mean?” reached his ears.

“He has yet to mention the holiday, and he is acting strangely. Did he tell you what was wrong?”

She hesitated, glancing at where Watson lay on the settee. “I heard him curse his injuries earlier,” she eventually replied, “trying again to decorate in his room, and I don’t think you saw how quickly he buried his face in a book when you refused to let me decorate in here. You know he was planning to go caroling this afternoon.”

Holmes resisted glancing at the settee. “Did he sleep last night?”

She shook her head. “A man knocked on the door shortly after you left. The doctor did not return until a few minutes before you did, and he left again on a quick errand just after breakfast. He has kept himself awake since, frequently standing to look out the window as carolers passed by.”

Holmes made no answer for a long moment. “When did he try to decorate his room?”

“Every day for the last week. Either you called him away or a patient knocked on the door—until today, when the weather stopped him.”

So not only was the weather affecting his injuries, but he had also been unable to do most of the things Holmes knew Watson enjoyed about the Christmas season. That would explain his low mood, and Holmes thought quickly as she picked up the tray she used on the stairs and turned to leave.

“Mrs. Hudson?” She glanced back from the doorway. “Do you still have the decorations you were going to put in the sitting room?”

“I set them up in the spare room downstairs, but I don’t have time to move them, now.”

He waved her off. “I can take care of that, if you do not mind the Irregulars in your rooms?”

She smiled in answer, and Holmes followed her out the door and down the stairs. They would only have a couple of hours to make this work, and he hurried across the street to where the young Irregular lingered in a doorway.

“Mr. Holmes,” Jacob said in greeting, pulling himself to his feet with a grin. “Happy Christmas!”

“Humbug,” he replied, waving off the greeting just to see the young boy smother a giggle. “How would you like to help Father Christmas?”

Jacob’s eyes widened. “Help Father Christmas?! How?”

“Father Christmas was going to decorate my sitting room as a present for Watson, but he ran out of time, and I cannot do it alone. Would, say, you and three others be able to come help? They must be very quiet. Watson is asleep, and we cannot wake him.”

Jacob’s eyes lit with excitement, widening even further. “We can do it, Mr. Holmes!”

Holmes nodded. “Be quick! Mrs. Hudson will let you in.”

Jacob bolted away, disappearing into the crowd in search of the first three Irregulars he could find, and Holmes went back inside to start working. Watson’s Christmas may not have been what he had originally planned, but perhaps this would help.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Shh!”_

_“Don’t tip it!”_

_“Be quiet. You’ll wake him.”_

_“Mrs. Hudson should have some biscuits for you in the kitchen.”_

_A quietly chorused, “Merry Christmas!”_

“Watson?”

I opened my eyes. Holmes leaned over me, stepping back when he saw I was awake.

“Mrs. Hudson said we have only a few minutes until supper,” he told me, moving to stand by his chair as I slowly woke.

I stretched, fighting to wake enough to find my voice. I had been sleeping hard, based on the scattered dreams I vaguely remembered, and I felt more alert already. I stretched again before pulling myself upright.

Something was different, and I froze, blinking the sleep out of my eyes as I looked around the room. Garland decorated the mantel, above the doors, and around the windows, and a tree sat in the corner, fully decorated with tinsel, a few ornaments, and several lit candles. Evergreen scented the room, reminding me of long evenings with my brother growing up, and another round of carolers passed outside as I stared in disbelief.

Holmes shifted in place. I tore my gaze from the room around me to stare at him, stunned, and a grin twitched his mouth.

“They did well, did they not?” he asked, obviously pleased that he had successfully surprised me.

My scattered dreams came to mind, and I glanced around again before looking back at Holmes, my surprise fading behind a wide grin. “The Irregulars did this? But I thought you hated Christmas decorations.”

He smirked even as he pointedly stepped away from the tree. “Decorations tend to catch fire when I am around,” he told me, eyeing the tree as if it could burst into flames at any moment, “but Mrs. Hudson did not appear to believe me when I warned her. I doubt they will last long.”

Hidden beneath the words was an acknowledgement that I preferred the decorations even if he did not, and my grin widened, my mood lifting as the room seemed to glow with Christmas.

“Thank you, Holmes. Happy Christmas!”

He brushed off the words, but the scowl on his face did not match the amusement—and was that relief?—in his gaze. Mrs. Hudson opened the door behind me, supper tray in hand, before I could do more than wonder at the relief.

“You look a sight more awake, Doctor,” she said on her way toward the table.

“I feel more awake.” I gingerly pulled myself to my feet, looking around the room. “The room looks wonderful, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Those children did it all. Young Jacob, the two Wiggins, and John Major worked for over an hour, quieter than I’ve ever heard them on their mission to ‘help Father Christmas.’”

She grinned mischievously, and I glanced back in time to see Holmes’ ears turn red. Amusement coursed through me, though I doubted my grin could get any wider.

“Is that what you told them, Holmes? What happened to Father Christmas being a ‘load of poppycock?’”

“He is still a load of poppycock,” he shot back, a twitched grin trying to break past the scowl he displayed, “but that had the best chance of convincing four children to silently hang decorations. Wiggins still had to tell his sister to hush several times.”

Charlie Wiggins talked faster than she could run, and she could run faster than most of the bigger boys. It was a Christmas miracle to make her stay silent even for a few minutes, much less for over an hour.

“I wish I had a Christmas present for them,” was my only answer, looking around the room again as I took my seat at the table. It had been years since I had last seen a room fully decorated for Christmas, and even the slightly simpler decorations they had used to avoid waking me looked amazing compared to how the room had looked before. This was much more than I would have been able to do on my own.

“I made them a batch of sugar biscuits,” Mrs. Hudson replied, picking up the tray to go back downstairs. “They each had two here and took the rest back to share with the others.”

Good. I would thank them next time I saw them, but that would suffice for now.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

The door swung shut behind her, and I looked up at where Holmes still stood near his chair, watching me.

“Are you going to eat or stare at me all evening?” I asked, beginning to fill a plate.

“Why do those have to be exclusive?”

I rolled my eyes as he took his place across from me. “Because most people do not stare at their flatmates over supper.”

He quirked a grin at me. “Since when am I ‘most people?’”

I could not prevent the laugh from escaping, but I waved away his reply. “That’s beside the point. Why are you staring at me?”

“Deducing my Christmas present, of course,” he answered nimbly, filling his own plate and ignoring the way I frowned at him for avoiding the question. “You stopped at the tobacconist on Oxford Street on your way home from your patient this morning, and you went back out less than an hour later, again to Oxford Street, though probably to a different shop. Given that it is primarily tobacconists and restaurants on that block, plus the unusual scent of something other than Ship’s hanging about you, you got me a fresh pouch of pipe tobacco, something new you believe I have not tried.”

I smirked, inordinately pleased to have successfully redirected him, at least for the moment. “I suppose you will have to wait to find out. Gifts come _after_ supper. You know that.”

That had been the one compromise I had made last year. I had grown up exchanging presents just before bed—and the first year had reflected that—but we could do it as early as just after supper, if needed. Considering his tendency to try to deduce his gift starting the day I bought it, we would probably exchange gifts just after supper almost every year.

He frowned thoughtfully, studying me between bites. He had expected me to scowl instead of smirking, and that was his first clue that his deduction had veered off target.

His gaze flicked to my pocket, where I had placed both my pouch of tobacco and his gift, and I fought to prevent my smirk from widening. I may not be able to deduce anything myself, but I had learned a few things from which _he_ deduced, and, occasionally, I could throw him off track.

I never could for long, however. I had perhaps until I stood up again until he noticed the outline of my jacket pocket.

“So what are we doing tonight?” I asked after several minutes of silence as we ate.

He glanced up at me. “What do you mean?”

I frowned. “Didn’t you say you were finishing a case tonight? That usually involves a stakeout.”

He shook his head. “I finished the final case last night. Lestrade said he had a cold case for me, but he is not bringing that until next week.”

Relief washed over me, showing in my expression despite my attempts to hide it. I must have misunderstood his comment earlier, but it hardly mattered now.

“Good.” I leaned back, pushing my depleted plate away to watch him finish. “Mrs. Hudson mentioned she was making shortbread for later.”

Pleasure lit his gaze, and he pushed his own plate away, deciding to save room. Holmes had a massive sweet tooth anytime, but Mrs. Hudson’s shortbread was one of his favorite desserts. I always had to move quickly if I decided I wanted any—though I would probably let him have most of this one as thanks for the Christmas decorations. I looked around the room again, enjoying the greenery.

“Watson?”

I glanced back to find him staring at me, his question obvious in his gaze, and I laughed.

“Fine. We can do it early again. Go get whatever the shopkeeper was supposed to hold for you.”

That made the most sense, and the surprise that crossed his face confirmed it. His package earlier, the one for which he had spent the day searching the city after the shopkeeper sold the one he put on hold, had been my Christmas present. I wondered what he would have gotten me that needed such a long, thin package.

Unable to completely smother the grin twitching his mouth, he disappeared into his room, and I used the opportunity to stand without him seeing the package in my pocket. I could not hide the limp that had worsened after sitting at the table for so long, however, and he noticed immediately when he returned a moment later, dropping the package on the settee to offer me his arm.

“I’m fine,” I told him, using the settee to aid my tenuous balance as I rounded the corner, and he rolled his eyes before taking my arm in his.

“Stubborn,” he muttered, forcing me to lean on him instead of the furniture.

“Pot, kettle,” I replied shortly, breathless as a spasm shot through my leg.

He huffed but made no reply, helping me to my chair before retrieving the package from the settee.

“You first,” he said quickly, handing me the long, paper-shrouded package.

I opened my mouth to protest but shut it just as fast. I would be able to give him his in a moment, and I inspected the long box, trying to decide what it might be as I looked for the place to open it.

A dividing line caught my eye after a moment, and I ripped open the box to allow a sturdy cane to slide into my hand. I swallowed. While it was certainly fitting and useful, I hardly enjoyed the reminder that I was half crippled.

“Thank you,” I managed around the lump in my throat. The cane was a heavy one, sturdy wood framing a few decorative pieces of metal, and it felt weighted at the base. I would be able to use it as a weapon, if need be.

“It is not just a cane,” he told me as I studied the simple design on the handle. I glanced up at him, and he added, “Pull on the handle.”

I frowned but did as he bid, gripping the cane in each hand and pulling, and it parted with ease. A moment later, I held a sheath in one hand and a gleaming sword in the other.

“Holmes!”

Another grin twitched his mouth at my obvious surprise. “The more uses an object has, the better, and you said you have experience with both knives and short swords.”

I nodded, examining the sword and its feel in my hand. It was well balanced, about twenty inches long, and narrowed to a point at the end. The cane’s handle served as the sword’s pommel, and the stick served both as sheath and a weighted baton, nearly sturdy enough to be called a club even without the sword inside. This would have been very useful in that case last month.

The thought struck me, and I smothered a grin of understanding. During a case denouement the previous month, a ruffian had disarmed me, and it was only Lestrade’s uncommonly timely arrival that saved the both of us a bloodletting or worse. Disinclined to carry a weapon himself, Holmes had decided to give me a back-up to prevent such a thing from happening again.

“Thank you,” I said again, and this time I meant it. Sheathing the sword, I set it aside before looking up at him, and he raised an eyebrow at me, my amusement probably showing in my face. I made no attempt to hide my grin as I pulled a rectangular box from my pocket.

“Happy Christmas, Holmes.”

Confusion at the package mixed with understanding at why I had been smirking, and he inspected the small box in his hand, searching for a place to rip the paper. A moment later, the wrapping fell away to reveal a plainly decorated, silver cigarette case. Pleasure lit his gaze.

“How did you know?” He quickly reached into a pocket to remove the battered leather case he had been using after the last metal one had broken in a scuffle—the same scuffle that had become the catalyst for my own present.

“I may not be a detective,” I said, “but I am a doctor. Do you really think I did not notice that you had a large bruise after that fight? You hesitated every time you moved too quickly.”

A small smile finally escaped, and he glanced up from inspecting the case in his hand.

“I suppose I am expected to say, ‘Happy Christmas,’ now?”

I could not kill the grin that split my face. “That is what most people would say, yes.”

“Humbug,” he said instead, waving off my amusement as he returned to inspecting the case and moving his cigarettes from the leather one. “We have been over _that_ already.”

I laughed aloud, but Mrs. Hudson’s step on the landing cut off anything I might have replied. She walked through the door a moment later, and Holmes made no attempt to hide his pleasure at the plate of shortbread she put on the table next to me. Two pieces disappeared from the plate faster than I could thank her.

“Slow down, Holmes, or you’ll make yourself sick.”

He smirked at me around a mouthful. “Not likely,” he said a moment before taking another large bite.

I rolled my eyes but turned back to Mrs. Hudson, intending to ask about the package she had kept for me. While not exactly a present, I had been saving something else for Christmas Eve, and Mrs. Hudson had kept it to prevent Holmes from finding it. He knew better than to raid her kitchen after she had chased him out with a spatula.

She read my question in my face. “It’s under the tree.”

I nodded my thanks, and she went back downstairs as I turned to find Holmes staring at me.

He swallowed the most recent piece of shortbread. “What is under the tree?”

“Why don’t you go look? It will go well with your shortbread.”

Setting the piece he had just grabbed back on the plate, he stood and crossed the room, and I grabbed a piece for myself as I watched him kneel to look under the branches. Apparently, Mrs. Hudson had shoved the surprise far beneath the tree, and he grumbled at the needles poking him in the back as he stretched to reach behind the trunk.

“Aha!”

He backed clear of the branches, a familiar shape in his hand, and he stood a moment later to remove the bottle of wine from its bag. Surprise flickered across his face as he read the label.

“Where did you get this?”

The bottle he held was a rare dessert wine made in Australia, and I grinned at his surprise. “My uncle sent it to me. He is trying to rebuild the vineyards the aphids destroyed, and that is one of the first bottles of dessert wine they have produced. His note said that he hoped I enjoyed it and he would appreciate a detailed opinion.”

He barely lifted his gaze from the label as he retrieved two wine glasses from his desk.

“We can certainly give him that,” he said as he poured a glass for each of us. “Australian wine was extremely popular before the blight of aphids destroyed the grapes.”

“You have shown an interest in wines,” I replied as he handed me the glass. “Have you ever looked into how they are made?”

My uncle had told Harry and I all about the winemaking process the year we spent in Australia, and I remembered many lessons in the vineyards about pest control and how to care for the plants. I had thoroughly enjoyed that year, and I might have spent another year with him after receiving my medical degree, if lack of funds had not sent me into the army.

He waved one hand in a so-so motion, sipping from the glass in the other. “I looked more into telling them apart than how they are made. This is good wine.”

I took a sip, enjoying the burst of flavor in the darker sweet wine. This _was_ a good one.

“It is an interesting process,” I replied, taking another sip. “Differences in water and soil affect the taste from year to year, and—” I broke off, glancing around the room. “Holmes, do you smell smoke?”

He looked up from the piece of shortbread he had just chosen from the plate—his fifth, if I had noted them correctly—to glance at me. His gaze focused behind me as his eyes widened, and he dropped both glass and shortbread to the table to grab the pitcher of water. I pulled myself to my feet in time to see him dump the half-full pitcher over the low branch that had caught fire. Breaking off the smoldering branch, he rescued the singed ornament at the end before tossing the branch into the fireplace, where it reignited with a faint hiss. The ornament landed on the desk a moment later as he glanced up at me, apparently wondering if I would be irritated that a branch had caught fire.

“Well,” I said with a faint chuckle, “you did warn us. Perhaps we should put out the candles.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he turned back to the tree to hide it, checking that none of the other branches had caught fire as he started putting candles out. Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried through the floor a moment later.

“Mr. Holmes! Why do I smell smoke?”

I could not restrain my laughter, and Holmes quickly put out the rest of the candles as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

With him around, even Christmas Eve could not be _completely_ quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :D


End file.
